"If I can't have you no one can!"
"If I can't have you no one can!"

Watch: Great White Shark driven absolutely mad by “sweet tang of human flesh” attempts murder-suicide on diver in cage!

Love is a many splendored thing.

Spring is almost in the air, in the northern hemisphere, and it can be felt as much as seen. Boys and girls walking hand in hand under budding cherry trees. Heart beats that quicken with a look across a garden party festooned with tea lights and tulips. Great White sharks falling so madly in love with scuba divers that visions of murder-suicide dance in their heads like an interspecies re-imagining of Romeo and Juliet.

And here we witness, via Brazilian big wave surfer Thiago Jacaré’s Instagram account, this very wild, beautiful, passionate dance.


In his caption, Jacaré writes:

Amazing how human beings terrorize animals, yet another White Shark loses his life due to the exaggerated greed of humans. Sad ..

Oh how love hurts with all its many exaggerations including greed but also lust, jealousy, possession, heart-break and fear.

Fear that the passion won’t be reciprocated. That it will cool in the other or disappear entirety.

The horror, the horror.

But have you ever been rejected yourself or fallen madly in love only to get your head stuck in the proverbial cage?

Part of living, I suppose.

Celebrate: The Mentawai Boat Trip is an erotic Gay-Cation for closeted straights!

Come for the waves, stay for the delicious sweets…

The boys went on a Ments trip last year. FukkYeahThaBoyz.

I’d been invited but thought bugger it, the Ments is shithouse, I’ll stick to my usual dose of wobbly garbage at Curl Curl.

Maybe the island chain dancing off Sumatra was golden back when Slats was forced to bunker down with Hoyo, Quikkie’s most inexplicably bizarre barrel-hunting duo, while being ferried ‘em all over from one insane set up to the next, Hoyo yelling out fuck yeh non-stop and Jimmy Slade eyeing off the camera, in between weaving fifteen-second jungle tubes.

That was then.

This is now: you get wedged in with a bunch of international deadbeats from Australia to Japan to Hawaii to Merika to Brazil to France to Finland, all fighting and flaring for the wave of their life, man, while you’re trying not to do too much unnecessary bark-scraping on the Surgeon’s Table or get yelled at by the steroid-jacked Paraguayan boogieboarder who thinks cage fighting to the death is art mate.

Nah, not for me.

The place can get stuffed.

Well, luckily there are finer steeds than I still keen and willing to tackle the place and they always seem to report back they bloody loved it.

Fair enough.

What sparked my interest, while being inundated with the pics of this odyssey I’d avoided, was just how extraordinarily gay the trip looked.

Not gay as in lame. Gay as in Athenian Olympics, Greco-Roman wrestling, Aristotle, Socrates and Oscar Wilde, the Village People getting chock-a-block at the YMCA, Tom Hanks succumbing to High Five in Philadelphia, Ricky Martin He Bangs HE BANGS, he looks like a flower, he stings my ring piece. Gay.

Fit lads, all tanned up and shirtless, getting grogged and hugging, sweating all over each other, hollering I luv ya, I luv ya, I luv ya, no females within a few hundred k radius, minimum.

Super gay.

And I love gay.

My father’s gay. My son’s gay. My husband’s gay. I love the gays. I love the gayness. I’ve seen the future. And the future is really, really, really gay.

Yet surfing culture is trapped precariously between the staunch manliness of a bygone era and the armpit-shaving regimens of our current crop of elite stepfather-approval-seekers.

Are surfers ready to face up to how intensely and wonderfully and perfectly gay surfing is?

We dedicate our lives to tight rubber and boardshorts, to smearing sunscreen on each other’s backs in the carpark, to splashing cutty waffle in each other’s faces in the lineup, to watching barely grown men prance top to bottom, bottom to top, on glassy lumps of ocean blue.

We gayz wistfully to the horizon, bore non-surfers to tears with Point Break quotes, travel to the emptiest corners of the earth surrounded exclusively with each other’s testosterone to camp under the stars, cuddle up close in the roar of a romantic fire and fall asleep with sweet, sweet dreams of deep, juicy pits.

*Liam Carroll is the author of confessional roman à clefs Slippery and Sweet Dreams of Fanta, which you can buy here. He’s also a commodities trader, physiotherapist and massive kook.

Surfer-father (left) and daughter pictured in Paris. Theoretically better days.
Surfer-father (left) and daughter pictured in Paris. Theoretically better days.

Breaking: Enterprising surfer-father takes young daughter to Europe so they can “shred the Coronavirus Zombie Apocalypse!”

(Or how I learned to stop worrying and love worldwide pandemics.)

Let’s all just admit, once and for all, that surfers are almost entirely worthless. We, each and every one of us, are carbon spewing, grouchily territorial, poisonously caustic, generally white, male and well-enough fed.

Starting boutique beer labels in our ample spare time etc.

Slightly re-tooling tail pads etc. (buy here)

Contributing the very last things this overheating world needs and staying almost entirely worthless while so doing.


The almost relates to how we travel and in that one regard we approach genius or at least “interestingly touched” levels of autism.

Mark a wave anywhere, in any country, going through any crisis and surfers will travel there. Will travel through wars and civil wars, corruption and vice, hell and high water to surf it.

Which brings us directly to our current, developing Coronavirus Zombie Apocalypse and whoa.


Are you watching? Keeping up? Can you believe?

SXSW cancelled. All college classes at Stanford University cancelled. Toilet paper sold out everywhere. People in completely unaffected regions self-quarantining. China shuttered. Cruise ships circling the oceans with no port willing to take them, states of emergency declared all over these United States.

But better, Europe in sheer panic, airline prices falling, the Champs-Élysées deserted, croissants rotting in the streets, shattered Hermes storefront windows gaping, begging for ginger little fingers to pluck camisoles then stroll down that deserted Champs-Élysées itself while whistling Champs-Élysées.

No crowds in front of the Mona Lisa at The Louvre.

No reservations needed at Girafe.

No busloads of Chinese tourists.

I’m looking at my angelic seven-year-old daughter, literally right now, across the table blonde head tilted down, watching From Russia with Love, her second favorite Bond film after Goldfinger, on her phone.

“Baby girl…” I holler “…wanna to go shred the Coronavirus Zombie Apocalypse?”

She looks up, says, “Yes…” before looking back down.

We’re flying to Paris tomorrow morning.

More as the story develops.

Listen: Exuberantly playful, wonderfully childlike Kai Lenny is surfing’s very own Pee-wee Herman!


Pee-wee’s Big Adventure, starring Paul Reubens as the exuberantly playful, wonderfully childlike titular character, was one of the very best films to come out of the 1980s. Herman, living in an amazing house with incredible toys and inventions, enjoyed each day to the fullest, not a cloud passing his sky until his most favorite treasure on earth – a red bike – went missing.

Pee-wee fearlessly chased it down, meeting an eclectic cast of characters along the way while charming each and every one of them until a glorious “happy-ever-after” finale and does his life, his story not mirror our own Kai Lenny’s to a tee?

Existence is a wonderful adventure for Lenny filled with toys, laughs and friends.

Unique laughs.

Heh heh!

There are some frightful creatures too with frightful stories, like Large Laird Hamilton, but mostly just heaping spoonfuls of fun and a most favorite treasure on earth – a shiny foilboard.

If World Surf League CEO and Lord Commander over the Wall of Positive Noise Erik “ELo” Logan does not see the viability in a re-boot… Lenny’s Lucky Life let’s call it… then he’s not the visionary he claims to be.


You don’t see it?

Listen here.

Locals get steamed up on Reunion. | Photo: La Haine

CoronaVirus hysteria: Locals on magical surf-rich island attack Australian tourists from cruise liner with bottles and stones and taunt with cruel insults!

"I fart in your general direction" etc.

Lovely Reunion Island, an Indian Ocean jewel, French, a place that is so wonderful and so perfect that you must, at least once in your life, take its nipple in your mouth and sob with pleasure.

Except for the bull sharks.


Jeremy Flores was born there and says getting attacked “is a fifty-fifty proposition.” The epicentre of fatal attacks.

Locals die while Paris fiddles.

A tropical paradise with water turned blood red.

The local news site even has a special category for shark stories. 

Need a reason not to go?

Here’s another.

Reunion Island locals, steamed up with Coronavirus hysteria,  have attacked visiting Australian and New Zealand tourists from a cruise ship, lighting fires on the road their shuttle bus was travelling on, throwing bottles and stones and taunting the visitors with cruel insults.

Police hit the locals with tear gas.

The cops told passengers they couldn’t guarantee their safety and the ship was forced to sail to nearby Mauritius.

There have been no reported cases of Coronavirus on Réunion Island, which has a population of around 900,000, so maybe it ain’t a bad idea to shut the gate for a lil while.

“Of course we are not against the arrival of tourists in Reunion, they are necessary for the development of our economy,” protestor Yannis Latchimy told Imaz Press Réunion. “We just want to be sure that there is no risk of the spread of the coronavirus.”